


Spirits - The Song of Andraste

by HereBeDragons



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereBeDragons/pseuds/HereBeDragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chantry tells us Andraste is the bride of the Maker, and that he was the one who granted her remarkable powers. But can that story be believed, or might Andraste's strength have come from another source? On the night before she is burned at the stake by resentful Tevinter magisters, Andraste thinks back on her life, her loves, and the divine inspiration that guided her. </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tales

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as part of the Dragon Age Big Bang, where authors and artists from across the fandom came together to create a variety of short stories, at least 10,000 words in length, to be debuted during the autumn of 2012. I've always been fascinated by Andraste, and wondered just how much of what the Chantry teaches is true, and how much was made up by church leaders after the fact. This is my attempt to tell the story of what really happened.
> 
> There are two gorgeous pieces of artwork for this story: the portrait of Andraste created by Jessica Jones (Jancola on Tumblr), and Foxghost's painting of Havard and Andraste that depicts a scene from Chapter Five. I am so grateful to both of these artists for creating such wonderful artwork to accompany my story, and also to my fabulous betas, Defira and Psyche Sinclair, and to the lovely people who organized the Big Bang. This story wouldn't have been written without their encouragement and support.

 •o•

_"After being betrayed by her husband, Andraste was taken to the Tevinter city of Minrathous, where she was burned at the stake. It is said that her death at the hands of the Imperium so angered the Maker that He once again turned His gaze from humanity. Only when the Chant of Light has been sung in all four corners of Thedas will the Maker once again welcome us as His beloved children._

_"During her life, Andraste was known for her singing. Both her beautiful voice and the words of her songs - derived, no doubt, from her communications with the Maker - were inspirational to those who followed her into battle. It is said that she sang to the very last. And though the melody has long since been lost to the ravages of time, the words inscribed below are believed to be the ones our Beloved Prophet sang in her final moments on this earth._

"Spirit of the water, soothe away my anger,  
For I am soon to leave here, in great fear and pain.  
Surround me with thy beauty, if it please thee that I might lose my fear of the flames.

"Spirit of the fire, hear me when I cry,  
For I am soon to die, and leave my people to mourn.  
Let me burn brightly, if it please thee that they might see my light and be warmed.

"Spirit of the air, lift my essence quietly,  
So high above that gathering, and to the Maker be borne.  
Take me to His side, if it please thee that I might spend eternity as His bride.

"Spirit of the earth, I give my body to thee.  
Oh, let my ashes sacred be.  
Let the Chant of Light grow, if it please thee to end our fear and our suffering."

.

From "Tales of the Destruction of Thedas," by Brother Genitivi

 

 

•o•


	2. Water

  
•o•

  
_Spirit of the water, soothe away my anger.  
_ _For I am soon to leave here in great fear and pain.  
_ _Surround me with thy beauty, if it please thee that I might lose my fear of the flames._

•o•

When I was very young, water was at the center of my world. Not a day went by when I did not gaze out over the bay that stretched into the Amaranthine Ocean, at the fishing boats bobbing gently on her sparkling surface, or the waves perpetually breaking against the rocks that lined the shore. That was the view that greeted me each morning when I stepped outside the little house where I lived with my mother in a dusty outpost of the Tevinter Imperium.

It was water - the vast ocean that started at our doorstep - that sustained us, from which we harvested much of our food. It was the ocean that allowed my mother to make her livelihood weaving fishing nets. I spent countless hours watching her weave the strands of hemp together, her fingers grasping a long needle made of bone, thin and flat, flying back and forth and in and out almost faster than my eyes could track. Her hands were rough and calloused, the skin damaged and dry in places where it had been rubbed and rubbed by the rough fibers of rope.

It was just the two of us: Mother and I. Mother never spoke of my father, and I don't remember him at all, if, indeed, I ever met him. But I never cared about that. She and I were happy.

Or if we weren't happy, I was too young to know the difference.

Now, I can no longer picture my mother's face. In truth, it has been a great many years since I held her face clearly in my mind. The only thing about her I remember distinctly, other than her rough hands, was her eyes. They were golden brown, just a shade darker than honey, and had wrinkles that formed at their corners when she smiled. And I suppose I also remember her hair, as it was the same color as my own, the color of unharvested wheat. Hers was short, though, while mine has always been long, falling nearly to my waist. Until tonight, that is.

Certain scents remind me of her, too: lavender, honeysuckle, and the subtle perfume of bleeding ladies. Mother loved flowers. She always had a vase in the center of the table, filled with whatever was currently in bloom, or with stems of dried grasses and cattails during the winter. Bleeding ladies were her favorite, their delicate petals stretching outward, white at the ends, but turning deep red, nearly the color of blood, near the stem.

Together she and I often wandered the hills, collecting wild flowers. We did this most often in the late afternoons, when she needed to stretch her legs and the muscles in her back and neck after weaving all day, and before weaving throughout the evening as well, by candlelight that strained her eyes. We picked flowers, and plucked ripe berries from their vines, and apples from the trees. I loved these hours with my mother, hours which felt stolen and precious, welcome time away from the dimly lit cottage which never seemed to be the right temperature: stuffy and warm in summer, and so cold in winter I could see the plumes formed by my own breath.

Always we were together, and only rarely was I allowed out of her sight. Gradually, I came to understand that she was fearful for me, afraid I would come to some harm. One night, when I was feverish and unable to sleep and she sat up with me ladling warm soup between my parched lips, she'd admitted to me the reason: that she'd had bad dreams while carrying me in her womb, dreams of harm that would come to me. So she did her best to be ever vigilant, so whatever horror the dreams had possessed would not come to pass.

But her vigilance was for naught, and when the horrors came, they, like most everything else in my childhood, arrived by water.

I was stolen from my mother. Carried away while she screamed from the doorway of our home, which was burning in spite of the gentle rain that fell from the overcast winter sky. She fell to her knees, a dark stain on the front of her shirt that appeared to be growing, even as she diminished in size as I was carried away from her and hauled up the gangway onto a ship. A ship bound for Tevinter.

For all the weeks of that voyage, I saw nothing but water during the minutes each day I was allowed above deck. Standing on the hard wooden planks, my feet bare and my shoulders shivering in the gusting wind that filled the sails, pushing me far too quickly away from the life I had known, I strained my eyes for any glimpse of land. But only water stretched out in every direction. Water, and sunlight that grew brighter as we traveled north. Light that became warmer, more brilliant, whiter and so harsh it made me shield my eyes with a flat hand. My vision blurred from the brightness of it, and brought tears to my eyes that I was afraid to shed. Tears that left dampness on my cheeks when I was unable to stop them.

I tried to reach out to the Spirit of the water, as my mother had taught me.

"What need have we for the Imperium's uncaring gods," she had said, "when we can draw on the powers that live alongside us every minute of our lives?"

Reaching out to the water was comforting, even though the water never answered back. Or, perhaps she did, her voice like waves that lapped against the hull of the boat, never ceasing, whispering, whispering, whispering in the background until they became so familiar I didn't recognize them as something apart from myself.

At any rate, I was soothed by the sounds, by the scent, by the way the water rocked the ship. By the knowledge of her cool depths stretching down beneath me. I suppose there lies the proof that I wasn't wholly miserable with this fate: I could have ended it at any time, leapt from the ship into the welcoming arms of the sea. She would have taken me, embraced me, given me release if that was what I had truly wanted.

But I wanted life more than I wanted escape.

 

•o•

 


	3. Fire

  
•o•

  
_Spirit of the fire, hear me when I cry,  
_ _For I am soon to die and leave my people to mourn.  
_ _Let me burn brightly, if it please thee that they might see my light and be warmed._

•o•

Tomorrow, fire would bring my death. But once upon a time, it had been my salvation. It was fire that set me free, so many years ago. I have always believed the Spirit of the flames listened, and answered when I called upon him, in my desperation to keep from being consumed by the new life the Tevinter slavers thrust upon me.

Minrathous was warm, much warmer than Denerim. Hot, even, during the summers. I soon grew accustomed to having a rivulet of sweat creep down the center of my back. To being out of breath when all I'd done was climb the stairs to empty the chamber pots in the Magister's quarters. To the sting on the back of my neck when I'd spent all day in the sun, pulling weeds from between the carrots and potato plants in the garden. All these things, no matter how familiar they became, still helped me maintain my distance between the life I had known before and this new one. They kept me from trusting in the comfort and safety of this new "home," which, of course, could never truly be my home.

I did not belong here as a person.

I belonged here only as a slave.

But even for a slave, it was possible for things to change.

For me, it happened on a day in the summer, when my clothes were damp and my hair was plastered to my scalp. I tripped, and the jug of wine in my hands slipped from between my sweaty palms, and fell to the tiled floor. It shattered with a sharp crack, and wine - dark red almost the color of blood - spattered everywhere. Wine my Master had specially imported from Seheron.

I was sure to be beaten as soon as my clumsiness was discovered.

When Bewick, one of the boys who worked in the Magister's house, started shouting, "She did it! She did it! She did it," I was angry and frightened and desperate, and before I knew what was happening, his hair was on fire.

He wasn't injured, not seriously. Not seriously enough that I was bothered, at any rate. And, strangely enough, not only was I never punished for setting his hair aflame, I also managed to avoid being beaten over the wine.

It was awkward, but not unheard of, for a slave to show signs of magic, and I'd just become infinitely more valuable to my master.

That was nearly the last I saw of Bewick, as my world and his quickly diverged. No longer was I required to work in the kitchens, or the gardens. I cleaned no more chamber pots. I spent no more nights sleeping on a pile of straw in the stables, where I'd been forced to tolerate Bewick's fumblings and the attentions of the other boys in the household, more times than I cared to remember. Now, I slept in the manor. In a bed. An actual bed. From Bewick, the language of books was hidden, something no common slave need master. I was taught to read, and to write in Tevene.

Most importantly, I was taught the words and the gestures I needed to cast spells. Just simple ones, useful ones. I might have been a mage, but I was still a slave, and it was made clear to me that my magic was meant for utility, or for the pleasure and entertainment of guests. Still, my life was improved. I was not required to serve food to the guests of my Master, and to endure the groping of their hands as I bent to pour wine or clear away the dishes. Instead, I was paraded out to perform magics I had been taught explicitly to amuse and amaze. I watched the Magister's face gloat with pride when he saw the reactions of his guests to the tricks I could do. At the pleasure he took in the knowledge that none of them owned a slave such as myself.

And I was allowed to perform these entertainments while clothed, unlike many of the other household slaves, whose lack of magical skill left them with only the erotic arts to perform in the service of the Magister and his guests.

One night, less than a year after my powers awakened within me, I awoke to a noise in my bedchamber. Harsh whispers, voices unfamiliar to me. Before I had time to act, I was blindfolded, bound and gagged to prevent me from casting, and carried away. Their precautions were probably not necessary; I had been taught no spells with which I could have defended myself. Except, perhaps, the natural ability I had to set things on fire.

Even bound, I tried to fight, and was almost immediately hit on the head, after which all turned to blackness.

When I woke, I was somewhere I had never been before. Not that I could see much of anything; the light hurt my eyes, and everything was blurry for more than a minute. No, it was the scent of the place I that told me I had been taken somewhere new. The familiar smells of the Magister's house were gone: baking bread, and burnt wood, and iron, and underneath it all the very faint scent of rotting fish. Here smelt like flowers. Flowers and incense and something cold and sharp and tight that I didn't recognize. It wasn't until much later that I realized what I had smelled that night was lyrium. In those early days, I just knew it smelled new and different.

In the days to come, I would learn to love all these scents, and others I had yet to experience.

"Good. You are awake." A woman's voice, unfamiliar. My head pounded from the inside, but I turned in search of the source of the voice.

The woman was short and slight of build, but she had lustrous dark hair that cascaded down to the middle of her back, and she wore robes that marked her as a Magister. Not, however, a Magister I could remember ever seeing before. Of course, my experience of the world was limited to the manor where I had lived, and those people who visited my Master, and in whose presence I had been invited.

All I knew was that I had never before seen this woman.

"My Master?" The words caught in my parched throat, barely passing through lips that were cracked and bloody from the gag that had been forced upon me.

I cringe now to remember that this was my first thought. Not a thought for my own well-being, but for that of the man who had enslaved me.

"Your former master is dead, my dear. I am your master now, and things will be very different for you in my house."

Although her voice was smooth, soothing, her words invoked a bright bloom of fear in my breast.

My life would be different? My old life had not been one of luxury, but it had been mostly free of pain. Even the things I had been forced to do in the dark rarely hurt, and I was only beaten when I made a mistake. The idea that things would be different was terrifying. She had made it clear that I was still a slave; given that, it seemed uncertain that different would mean better.

My fear must have shown in my face, for her next word were kinder, her voice even gentler.

"You have no reason to fear me, Andraste. That is your name, is it not?"

I nodded.

"My name is Lilura."

Then, the woman fell silent, as if waiting for a response.

I had none. What was there to say? Apparently this woman killed my previous master. That sort of violence was common enough among Magisters as they scrabbled for power and prestige. He was gone, and it seemed my life would be with this woman now.

What could she possibly expect me to say?

After the silence stretched out into minutes, it seemed clear that she did, indeed, expect me to say something, so I began searching around for words that would not displease her, not cause her to strike me, or punish me in some unexpected way.

"Magister . . . Lilura." The name felt unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, on my tongue. "Does this mean . . . I'm to live here now?"

"Yes."

"May I ask, how did my Master die?"

"For you. He died for you, Andraste." Her eyes bored into mine with an intensity I had never witnessed before. Possibly because I had never allowed myself to look into the eyes of anyone in Minrathous for such duration.

"I don't understand," I said truthfully.

"It's simple. When I learned you were there with him, still enslaved, I came to find you. To release you from his bondage."

"But . . . why?"

"You are female. Women are not safe in a world controlled by men. He would have kept you a slave, in spite of the gift you carry in your blood. I will teach you to survive on your own terms. You need never again be slave to any man. Do you understand?"

"Then I am no longer a slave? Am I not your slave, now?"

She was silent for the space of several breaths before answering.

"I am no man, Andraste."

That answer was confusing, in truth, but I chose not to pursue it.

True to her word, Lilura taught me to survive, among other things. She taught me to control my magic, and to allow it to exceed the bounds of my control. She taught me the secrets of blood, of how to take life force and bend it to my will, change it, shape it into any form I wanted. This was a power beyond anything I could have imagined, but it sickened me as well. Not when done in small ways, in mundane ways. Cutting my own flesh and drawing on the power it contained was invigorating, intoxicating. But from there, it was just a small step to being unsatisfied with the small scope of power, and using the blood - the life force - of others to fuel it. This was the legacy of the Imperium, and once I understood completely both the cost and the powerful allure of the blood, I swore never to take a life to increase my own power in that way.

The other thing Lilura taught me was the magic of song, in ways both arcane and mundane. Although even the most mundane of singing is, after all, magic.

I lived with Lilura for two years; years I counted as happy ones. She was kind to me, motherly, almost. And I had friends. One in particular.

Ealisay was about my age, and also lived in Lilura's household, although Ealisay had no magic (and, as a result, had more mundane duties than I did). At times, I helped her with her chores, and then she and I would go on small adventures together, the limited sort of adventures that could be had within the estate of a Magister. And we sang together, often. There was something pure and joyful about Ealisay, in spite of her enslavement. She taught me to celebrate the beauty in small things - in the song of a lark, or the curl of a blade of grass. To savor the warmth of the sun on my skin in the last, lingering days of autumn, before the winter would dull its warmth. She taught me that laughter was something to be enjoyed, not hidden shamefully away, and that friendship was a thing that could be trusted.

But then, in the way of things, this life, too, came to an end. Lilura was killed, much as she had killed my previous Master. I was taken away, out of Minrathous, to live in Vyrantium. Never again would I see Ealisay, or hear her bright voice. No longer did I have the desire to sing.

And once again I was a slave to a man, in name at least, if not in spirit.

Just as Lilura warned, he tried to control me. He captured me for my magic, but I soon learned that he wanted more from me than parlor tricks. Unsurprisingly, he wanted my body (which was easy enough for him to claim), but he seemed to want even more than that. He wanted my mind, my spirit. He wanted to mold me into believing that I belonged to him, in all ways. He used words to ensnare me, and his body to oppress me. Amazingly, above everything else, he wanted my love. As though love won under duress, won by coercion, was any sort of real emotion.

I never forgot what Lilura had taught me: that I need not belong to any man against my will. He could use my body, but what was in my mind and my heart belonged to me, and to me alone. So I said the things he wanted to hear, and learned to send myself into the Fade when I no longer wished to be present for what was being done to me in this world.

And I bided my time, planning for the day when I would be strong enough, knowledgable enough, angry enough to take action.

Finally, the day came when I was ready. I had held myself in check long enough. Bided enough time. Sent my mind willingly into the Fade once too often. I was ready to break free from my new Master, to shrug off the shawl of slavery forever.

I knew not what would follow this attempt to escape. My swift death, most likely. I could not imagine being able to succeed. I hoped for nothing more than to kill the man who had murdered Lilura, and do it in such a way that my death was ensured, rather than be taken back into slavery, forced to serve yet another Master who would abuse me in new ways. I intended to end my own life, if it came to that.

But it didn't. Death did not come for me on that day at all. Death chose to take its sweet time.

I succeeded in killing this new Master. In the dead of night, along with those in his household who might pursue me. Feeling full of my own power, and something I can only describe as satisfaction, I walked out through the front gates of his manor, and into the city and, unbelievably, no one stopped me. So I kept walking. I walked and I walked and those who got in my way did not live long enough to regret their decision.

Once I was free, once it sank in that I was truly free, I knew what I wanted to do, what I was destined to do.

I had seen this world and knew it to be corrupt. At its heart, it was filthy and foul and the Magisters were the source of all its illness. I was sickened by the lives they wasted, merely to feast on their lust for power, the power that resided in blood. This was the corruption at the heart of the Imperium, and it needed to be stopped. Magic, after all, should exist to serve humankind; not the other way around.

I would destroy the Magisters. Those who had made magic a curse, rather than a blessing. The Magisters, whose power was a sickness that infected everything it touched. They had released the taint, and unleashed the darkspawn onto the world, endangered all the races above and below ground with their conceit and their vanity and their arrogance.

They had to be stopped. And I would be the one to stop them.

What a ridiculous thought it was for me to have, an escaped slave who knew of magic only what her enslavers had allowed her to know. Even Lilura had been careful not to teach me spells I could easily turn against her. But in spite of all this, in spite of my ignorance and my poverty and my vulnerability (I was, after all, a woman alone traveling in a world that was unfriendly to my gender, at best), with each step I took, my resolve grew stronger.

I would destroy the Magisters. I would bring the Imperium to its knees. Tevinter would fall before me, choking on its pride, and I would spit in its face before delivering a merciful death blow.

Assuming I decided it deserved mercy.

 

•o•

 


	4. Air

 

•o•

  
_Spirit of the air, lift my essence quietly,_  
 _So high above that gathering, and from this cold world be borne.  
_ _Your song will be my guide, if it please thee that I might spend eternity at your side._

•o•

As I traveled, south and east, toward the Ferelden Valley, the weather turned bad, and frigid winds blew from the south. I had always considered the Spirits to be my friends, but there were times in those early days when air was an enemy to me, one I feared above all else. He chapped my skin and parched my throat. leaving me with a thirst it was difficult to fully quench. He stung my eyes and forced me to turn away as I squinted through the hand I put up to shield my face. His icy fingers snaked through the rough weave of my clothing, which had grown threadbare during my travels.

This last discomfort, at least, was eased when I stole a cloak from a woman in Nevarra. She was a friendly woman, with plump arms and ruddy cheeks, a woman who worked the earth, who toiled and struggled and sweat for the life she had scraped together. And I stole from her, without a second thought. I snuck away early in the morning, having enjoyed the hospitality of her warm fire, and hot stew in my belly, and a rough blanket over my legs while I slept near the hearth. I snuck away with her warm cloak wrapped around me, a garment that had taken months to weave and was probably intended to last the rest of her life.

Now, I suppose others would say the woman was blessed. That her hovel was a holy place where the Chosen One had slept. That this god they have come to worship would smile on her, filling her life in the next world with pleasures, by virtue of the fact that her cloak warmed the shoulders of his prophet.

I have no doubt, however, that when she awoke on that autumn morning, she had naught but curses for the woman who had stolen away with a serviceable garment, two loaves of freshly-baked bread, and a hunk of white cheese.

I don't regret it, though. I did what was needed to survive.

In spite of the cloak, as I drew closer to the Waking Sea, the cold seeped through to my skin, and I knew I would not survive once the snows began to fall. I was fast approaching Emerius, but had no desire to seek shelter there. It seemed unlikely I would remain at liberty long in that city. The Magisters in Emerius were, by all accounts, even more corrupt, more out of control than those in Tevinter.

Emerius was the center of the Imperium's study of blood magic. Mages who lived underground worked tirelessly to unlock secrets that were surely never meant to be unlocked. Blood magic was rampant, the blood of hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent slaves spilled each year to further these efforts. The tunnels beneath the city literally ran red with the blood of murdered slaves.

No, Emerius was no place I wanted to go. Not until I was ready to lay waste to everything the Tevinters had done there.

So, given a choice between taking shelter in Emerius through the winter or freezing to death, I chose a third option. The Deep Roads would take me into the Ferelden Valley, at least that's what I had heard, so I made my way through an ancient metal gate, and followed a dank tunnel that reeked of age far beneath the earth.

The Deep Roads were like nothing I could have imagined. A vast network of tunnels carved by dwarves out of living rock. It was obvious that the Blight which had so recently raged on the surface had affected those below the ground, as well. Remains, moldy and skeletal, littered the passageways away from the cities the dwarves called "thaigs." And navigating underground was nearly impossible. It was difficult to keep my bearings, to know which direction was which, to decide which tunnels would take me where I wanted to go.

Food, too, was scarce. I had brought with me as much as I could carry, things I had stolen, mostly: apples from barrels in barns that were untended at night, as well as potatoes and onions and carrots. But these things went quickly, and I had to sustain myself on what I could find underground. Occasionally, I came across bands of dwarves who could be persuaded to part with some of their provisions for a bit of coin, or other favors. Mushrooms were relatively easy to find, and meat turned out to be plentiful, once I became so hungry I overlooked my disgust of the creatures who stalked the underground, and forced myself to sample their flesh. They were strange, reptilian things that walked on hind legs and chirped like birds, but had horrible maws that gaped with pointed teeth. Cooked to a crisp, the meat was surprisingly palatable, although to be honest it was never something I would crave once I left the Deep Roads. And, fortunately, it was easy enough to keep my water skin filled, from fountains of dwarven construction that appeared to operate by magic, continually providing streams of the freshest, most delicious water I had ever tasted.

So, sustenance was available, but it was still not easy to provision myself, and some days I spent more time trying to feed myself than I did traveling. I had nearly decided to give up, to throw myself upon the mercy of the next band of dwarves I saw traveling, and beg them to help me find a way aboveground, anywhere at all. I no longer cared.

But then I heard it.

Singing.

Faint at first, but so compelling that I began to move in its direction without being fully aware that's what I was doing.

Singing.

It grew stronger, and more and more beautiful, and though I drew closer and closer, I could not identify its source. It hardly seemed that one person's voice could carry through rock and stone the way this voice did. I sensed that I was still far away from it, and yet I could hear it clearly, almost as though I was hearing it with my mind rather than my ears.

Singing.

I followed it deeper and deeper into the earth, not caring that I was being taken ever farther from the surface. I knew not if I was moving toward or away from Ferelden, toward or away from anything resembling civilization, toward or away from any life I had ever known. Then again, the lives I had known reeked mostly of slavery and servitude and the yoke of constant unspoken threats. Certainly nothing so appealing that the thought of finding something entirely new seemed a bad thing.

Down I traveled, meeting nothing along my way other than a few stunted creatures with withered skin and grinning mouths filled with pointed teeth, stinking of a darkness I had never smelt before. Darkspawn, I supposed, who were easily dispatched with spells. There were spiders as well, but their signs were easy enough to recognize, and avoid. I saw no dwarves, and certainly no other humans.

Finally, I reached a place that was different than the roads I had traveled to get here. The architecture changed, no longer the blocky, geometric designs favored by the dwarves, but something else entirely. Graceful columns that stretched upward, images carved on their capitols. There were statues here, as well, a multitude of statues which were unlike those of the dwarven Paragons I had seen in the Deep Roads above.

Lyrium was here in abundance. Veins of blue ran through the rocks, as well as huge crystals which poked out of rocky outcroppings, illuminating the vast spaces with their cold, watery light. But there was something else here, something I had never seen before. Something I can only describe as red lyrium. It, too, grew out from the rocks, its glowing red tendrils snaking up around the columns, like the bloody roots of some ancient, injured, unholy tree. It gave off a glow that looked sinister, causing everything nearby to appear tinged with blood. It had magical power at least equal to that of the blue, perhaps even surpassing it. And there was something about its appearance - the way it almost seemed to grow in an organized fashion - that made me wonder if it hadn't been cultivated intentionally. The place had the look of a garden that had been allowed to go to seed. Yet it left me feeling uncomfortable, unclean almost, and I did my best to avoid coming near it.

Everywhere I could smell the traces of magic, and see the wonders it had wrought. But how was that possible? Surely, this was built by dwarves - no other people had ever lived beneath the ground, as far as I knew - but dwarves had no magic, had no ability to access the Fade. So, what was this place?

There were no darkspawn. No inhabitants of any kind. It was an eerie feeling, as if I were the only person left in all the world. For all I knew then, I might have been the only person left. Perhaps the Magisters had discovered a way to destroy the rest of creation, and I was the only one to survive, safe here, beneath the ground. It didn't seem like the worst possible fate.

Here, the singing was, strangely enough, more clear than ever before, but softer, as well. Not the blaring sound I had expected, considering how far away I was when I first heard it. But it was gentler now, calmer. Almost as though it knew I had nearly arrived, and had no more reason to call loudly to gain my attention, or twist itself into seductive strains to bring me close. I had come, and I would find it, and we both knew the finality, the eventuality of that. Nothing would deter me from finding the source of the singing now, even if it fell entirely silent.

It did not fall silent, though. It continued, and I followed, and finally I found myself in a room with a vast staircase leading down. As soon as I entered, the singing ceased, becoming a comforting hum that washed over me in waves. I had never felt so calm before, such a sense of well-being, of not-quite-joy, but of something far better.

Of peace.

I descended the stairs, finding myself in a room containing little but two structures that could best be described as altars, at either end of the room. Each of them held a single statue. The one opposite where I stood was red, as if it were made from the red lyrium. It appeared to represent two people, one of them looking out, and the other who could only be seen from behind. This statue dampened the peace I was feeling, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Not even to step close enough to truly examine it.

Instead I turned to the other altar. There, I found a statue of a woman. She wore a flowing dress over the slight swell of a belly which appeared to be carrying a child. In one hand, she held a sword, but it was not raised overhead as if in anger, but held at her side, as though she would only use it to dispense mercy. Or perhaps justice. I had no idea who this woman might be, but I loved her. It was she who had called to me, whose singing had guided me through the tunnels and the caverns and brought me here. The statue glowed a blue so intense it nearly hurt my eyes to look upon it. Lyrium. Beautiful, perfect, amazing crystal blue lyrium.

I picked it up, reverently, in my hands, and felt a burning burst of energy course through me. Only later did I remember that lyrium is deadly to touch. But the statue did not kill me, did not seem to harm me in any way. Far from it. I felt safer, more powerful, more alive than I had ever felt before. And the statue was pleased as well. I could feel her satisfaction, a faint, whispered voice in my head. I knew that now it was time for me to return to the surface, and I knew that I must keep the statue with me, always, but that I needed to be very careful about who I shared its existence with.

I made my way out of the Deep Roads, and with the whispered voice to guide me, I found myself back in Ferelden with no trouble. By now, the winter snows were melting, and I felt as though a new life had started for me. A new life in which nothing would be allowed to get between me and what I intended to do. For I intended to bring down the Imperium. And now, I knew I had the power to do it.

 

•o•

Maferath was the perfect incarnation of a barbarian. It was his visage - tall and broad, his hair wild and beard matted and unkempt - that mothers in Tevinter used to frighten their children into behaving, into going quietly to sleep at night. "Be good, or the barbarians from the south will carry you away," and the children knew without being told that being carried away by barbarians always ended badly.

When Maferath and I were wed, I had no illusions that he loved me. And of course, I didn't love him. But we respected one another, which is a far better foundation for a marriage than love. Love falls apart and crumbles so easily. Or so I told myself, time and time again, having never experienced such a thing for myself.

This was better. A joining of equals. I wanted his power; he found me beautiful. He knew I intended to bring Tevinter to its knees, and I knew he wanted to rule the south, which was where I intended to start. Well, ideally, he wanted to rule everything, but the south was feasible. And I remembered Lilura's words, her admonition that I never allow myself to become a slave to any man. Certainly, Maferath would have happily controlled me, as was the habit for most couples who married in our clan. But I would not allow this, and, to his credit, he never chafed against my independence. Well, not until the very end.

We were well suited for one another, truth be told.

At first, our lives were simple. I bided my time, knowing that someday I would strike back at Tevinter. My husband's army marched slowly, inexorably north, waging his battles against the Imperium, and occasionally against other tribes in the south.

War, as it turns out, is easy. No, not easy to survive, nor easy to stomach, nor easy to bear.

But easy to wage.

We began in Ostagar, which fell more quickly than I could have imagined possible. The Tevinter city had never been much more than an outpost, despite its grandiose architecture: its sweeping bridges crossing over the deep chasm, its tower stretching so high I got a crick in my neck from watching the birds circle the tip of its spire. So confident was the Imperium in their control over all of Thedas that they took inadequate precautions, which my husband was quick to use to his advantage.

From Ostagar, we crossed Ferelden on the Imperial Highway the Tevinters had so generously built, almost as if they meant it for our convenience. I doubt they could ever have dreamed their great work would be used against them, but once we began to march, we moved north at a rate I found astonishing. The highway gave us access to all Tevinter settlements, large and small. Some of the battles were bloody, while some involved nothing more than the beheadings of the few people in charge. Maferath swallowed up the south in bits and pieces - a strip of coast or town here, an entire valley there. As we went, our numbers swelled with people who were grateful for their freedom and happy to join what appeared to be an easy conquest for spoils.

And as we conquered the south, my life . . . happened.

I had a son, with golden hair and eyes the color of honey just like my mother's. And then I had another, red-haired like his father, a child who didn't reach his first birthday before being carried away by the plague. A year later, I gave birth to a third child, another son, blonde-haired like me. Him, I tried not to love, for fear of how much it would hurt if I lost him, but I failed in that miserably, and loved him perhaps the best of all.

It was not an ideal childhood for them - their father a warlord and their mother a warrior queen - but I did love my sons with a passion so fierce it scared me at times. When I sensed some danger to them, I felt I was no longer a human woman, but was channeling the spirit of the one of the lions that stalked the foothills, with their amber-colored fur and their unblinking eyes, and their twitching tales. I was poised to attack, with tooth and with claw, at anything that dared threaten my boys. So few things dared.

Sometimes I wish I could have been a different sort of mother to them. A proper mother, and not a warrior. Given them a home, rather than a life as part of a constantly moving army camp. I did my best, though, and trust that they will believe the best of me, no matter what they are told when I am gone. They loved me, and know I loved them, and when they learn what their father has done, they will know the truth of it from the betrayal they will see in his eyes.

More than anything, I hope that someday they will find happiness of their own making, happiness away from the stench and the smoke and the tragedy of constant war. That, certainly, is my wish for them.

Through those early years my greatest struggle was keeping my children alive; a life following an army is not an easy one. But it was not just the struggles of daily life that wore away at me. I was also driven by an itching, burning need to move north and face the Imperium. To fulfill the destiny I believed was mine. So, during those early years I also struggled to keep myself from going mad with worry and impatience, as I waited for the time when we could move north and face those I considered my true enemies.

To calm myself, and my sons, I sang. Songs of joy and loss and hope and death and yearning. Songs of the past I lamented, and the future I hoped to create. I was indiscreet in my singing, allowing others to hear my songs. At the time, I thought it was a blessing, as people began to seek me out to hear them. Only a few at first, but after a time I realized that half the camp followers were there on my behalf, rather than following Maferath for his might and his wrath. They sought me out, sought out what they perceived as beauty in my songs, and I swelled with pride to have this power on my lips. Little did I know they did not believe the power came solely from me. That they began to believe a god who remained hidden in shadows had chosen me as his vessel. That they saw me as an extension of some divine will, something beyond my comprehension and control.

And perhaps this was true, in a way, but I am certain my power did not come from this "Maker" of theirs, but from another source altogether.

Because the other thing that sustained me, that kept me calm when I might have been too overwhelmed or terrified to continue, was the statue. I loved her, and I trusted her completely. I trusted her to guide me, and to keep me safe. I also knew I needed a better way to keep her safe, to keep her hidden from those who might grow jealous, who might wish to take her from me.

Inspired by the sword in her hand, I decided she should be worked into the handle of a blade that I, myself, would wield. Of course, since I could trust no one else to handle her, this required me to learn the art of smithing.

This was a challenge. Not the smithing itself, which is physical work, demanding and sweaty, but satisfying. Nothing beyond my capabilities; I was physically strong from years of labor in Tevinter, as well as the time I had spent traveling with the army.

The challenge was finding someone to teach me.

None of the smiths associated with the army would let me come near their forges. Smithing was man's work, they said. I wasn't strong enough, I was too delicate to withstand the heat, too weak to wield a hammer. A woman's will was not capable of controlling the metal. All these things I knew to be untrue, but I could not force knowledge from those who were determined to withhold it.

Finally, I met a dwarf who had left the underground to become what they call a "surfacer." He cared not for human convention, for rules about what women were allowed to do, and what they weren't, and he agreed to teach me. Karhok first taught me to work hot iron, to learn its nature, its secrets, the way it behaved under the hammer, and then to forge steel, and learn its secrets as well. He taught me which metals were soft enough for the core, and which were hard enough to hold a sharp edge and point. I learned to gauge the heat of the metal by its color, knowing when it was exactly right for being hammered. The things he taught me went far beyond smithing; the beauty he saw in the metal was like poetry, and he shared that with me as well, not in the things he said, but in the look in his eyes as he stood at his forge. At the rhythmic pounding that sometmes sent me out of my body and soaring far across the Fade.

Karhok taught me that beauty lies not inside of things, but in the feelings one has towards those things. In their meaning, in the joy of creating, or expressing what was in one's heart. It was one of the most beautiful things anyone had ever taught me, and certainly, I knew what he felt at the forge was the same as what I felt when I sang.

I practiced by forging the first swords that were put in my sons' hands - sparring blades with dull edges - as I learned the craft I needed to forge a sword of my own. Finally, not long before Maferath marched on Amaranthine, I wrought a sword of silverite, the statue embedded within the handle. It was the most beautiful weapon I had ever seen, and I knew it would guide me to victory. I had no reason to doubt. I had Maferath's army behind me, an army that grew in number with every mile we conquered.

Amaranthine fell like a sapling under the claws of a bear, snapping so softly it barely made a sound. The battle was over nearly before it had begun, and the largest port in the south was now ours.

This, for the first time, felt like a true victory over the Imperium. The loss of Amaranthine would hurt them as nothing before had done. Now, we had truly taken the south.

We boarded the ships we had captured, the bodies of our enemies strapped to the figureheads. I thought it bad luck - weren't those carved goddesses supposed to bring good fortune on the voyage? And would reeking corpses offer us any measure of grace? But Maferath disagreed with me, and thought it sent an appropriate message of the death we brought with us, death to the Tevinter Imperium.

With that, we crossed the Waking Sea, and for the second - and the last - time, I sailed away from Ferelden.

 

 

_Andraste's Chant, by Jessica Jones_

•o•

Emerius was our first real challenge, and it very nearly bested us.

We had the advantage in that the arrogant Tevinters never expected us to arrive, and most of our ships entered the harbor before they were able to raise the chain meant to keep us out. But the fight itself was bloody. I witnessed magics there the likes of which I had never seen in Minrathous, the likes of which I could never have imagined. By the end, we had broken the Imperium's hold, but at an almost unimaginable cost. We'd lost three-quarters of our soldiers. And here, while there were thousands of souls liberated by our victory, only a small percentage of them were fit to join our march. Slaves in Emeritus lived in something called a "Gallows," and the name's relation to a place of execution was more fitting than perhaps had been intended.

So, much weakened, we camped in the hills near the city, a place called Sundermount, and watched as the flocks of birds overhead grew steadily larger in number.

In the past, I always loved watching birds circling on the currents of wind high above my head. Hawks and vulture, ravens and gulls. But here, so near the carnage of the battlefield, there were more birds than I had ever seen before, and the knowledge of why they were here - to feast on the soft flesh and eyeballs and viscera of the dead - made me resent their presence. It seemed a constant reminder of how narrowly we had escaped our own deaths.

We tried to find a way to proceed. Maferath argued we should be finished. We had done enough, we'd shown the Imperium we were not afraid, we had dealt them enough of a blow to prove our point. Better, now, to retreat back to Ferelden, to the south, to the lands we could hope to hold.

But I was displeased with that plan. We had dealt them a blow in Emerius, but rather than satisfying me, it had given me a taste for blood I wanted to sate. I wanted to deal a death blow. I didn't want them to fear me; I wanted the whisper of my name to be the last sound that would come from their dying lips.

I argued, and cajoled. Finally, I appealed to his pride, to his ego. What would they think of the Barbarian King who ran away from his victory?

Finally, that argument held sway, and he agreed we could continue. How that would happen was still a bit of a mystery. Our numbers were greatly reduced, and morale was lower than it had ever been before. But I was determined to press head, no matter the consequences, no matter the cost.

Even so, huddled around a campfire, shivering in spite of the warm summer air, I was afraid. For the first time, truly afraid.

How arrogant does that sound now? Afraid for the first time? Had I really been so very sure of success until that moment? But honestly, I had been. Things had been easy at the start. No one really tried to stop me as I left Tevinter; no one who posed much of a threat, at any rate. And once I found Maferath, no one dared challenge us. And I had the statue, whispering to me in her comforting voice, telling me all would be well, that my cause was righteous, and I needn't worry about the details - things would happen as they must.

So I shivered into the darkness, the darkness not only of the night itself, but also the darkness in my heart, darkness caused by fear which threatened for the first time to overwhelm me. I willed myself not to be afraid, willed myself to continue, convinced that my mission was just.

And then, just a few nights after the battle, in the hills near Emerius, as we sat around our fires trying to plot strategies on our maps, not sure how to proceed with such reduced numbers, a group of men entered our camp. We had no warning. No guards had sounded an alarm. They merely walked past, and suddenly, there they were.

They were elves, looking exhausted and worn, armed with a hodge podge of weapons and armor that had clearly been scavenged and pieced together from whatever they could find. Knives made of broken glass, swords made of metal ripped from farming tools. Bows fashioned from broken barrels, and arrows whittled from wooden crates. They were pathetic, but their leader held his head high and proud, and in his eyes, I saw something of myself reflected. This man wanted what I wanted. He wanted the Imperium to suffer.

His name was Shartan, and he and the elves who followed him were also escaped slaves. It took little convincing for them to agree to join us; that is, after all, why they had come. And there were more elves, he promised, more who would join, as soon as they were liberated from their Tevinter masters.

In this dark night of my soul, Shartan's arrival seemed to herald the breaking of dawn on the horizon. I wanted to see this daylight, I wanted to feel its warmth on my face. I wanted to free myself from the darkness that had settled into my heart. So I turned to the thing that had comforted me in the past. Comforted me, and those around me. Brought people to my side, and held them close with a loyalty that seemed unbreakable.

I sang.

I knew the others would listen, and I could see from their faces the songs touched them in some way. They were inspired. And I realized that this, perhaps, was the gift I could give them. In the past, I had thought of this as a power I held over them, the power to draw others to me and keep them close. But now I saw that perhaps it was not about me after all. Instead, it was my gift to them. The gift of my voice, the gift of beauty in this darkness and cold. In this place that stank of death, as would all the places into which we would go, even before battles had yet been fought. The gift of life. The gift of peace.

Some of the songs came from the sword, and some of them came from my own heart. I know not which were more powerful. To me, in a way, they were one and the same. The sword was a part of me, now, and as long as I held it in my possession, nothing would be able to stop me. So, I sang the songs that were born in my mind, in my heart, in my body.

I sang.

More than anything, I sang of home. Not a particular place, but the very idea of home. The place a person felt safest, felt warm. A place to lay one's head down at night, to lay in the arms of a husband or wife. Where the sounds were familiar, and the smells. Where everywhere you looked, every scene before your eyes was layered on top of a thousand other times your eyes had beheld that same view. Memories on top of memories on top of memories, so tightly packed that no particular moment stands out, but instead you are wrapped inside of a blanket of memories and nowhere has ever felt safer.

Unless, of course, it is torn away from you. But I didn't sing about that. I sang only about the warmth and the pleasure of home.

To the humans, of the place they wished to return once this war was at an end. For Shartan and his elves, of the place they hoped to find in the future. And for myself? For myself, home was such a fragmented idea, I wasn't sure whether to look into the past or the future. Perhaps home was something I needed to find inside myself. Or perhaps home was a place I'd tasted once, long ago, for the last time.

So I sang. And for a while, it seemed as though all was right with the world. In spite of the fighting and the blood and the death, I was able to find beauty, as well. Beauty which sustained me, and allowed me in turn to sustain those who followed me.

With renewed fervor, we surveyed the land, choosing our targets carefully. We started in Cirane, on the outskirts of the Imperium, where slaves outnumbered mages. With each victory, our numbers swelled. And with Shartan at my side, it seemed we were truly unstoppable. I realized perhaps we had a chance, after all. That victory was truly within my grasp.

 

•o•

The Imperium, of course, did not intend to sit by meekly and allow us to ravage their lands. They raised an army. But I found that, with my sword in my hand, my powers were greater - far greater, orders of magnitude greater - than they had been before. Greater than I could have imagined even had I chosen to call upon the powers of blood.

I could bring lightning down from the sky, not just a few bolts, as I had seen many Magisters do before me, but could command an entire raging thunderstorm. I once caused a flood through a mountain pass, washing away two legions of Imperium forces in little more than the blink of an eye. With a wave of my arm, I caused wells to dry, rivers to stop flowing, sending the land into a drought wherever I desired, all without the stink of blood magic. The lives of no slaves were spent for my efforts.

So it came to pass that the crops meant to sustain the Imperium's forces withered and died, while those grown for the use of my own people grew more lush and plentiful than ever before. The roads we wished to travel were dry and clear; the paths ahead of the Imperium were washed out and muddy, impossible to pass.

I became aware, gradually, that my followers had begun to whisper that I was being guided - that  _they_  were being guided - by the hand of some unseen god, this deity they called the Maker. For it was no secret it was me they now followed; only a few of my husband's most loyal soldiers still considered themselves in any way part of Maferath's army. I suppose it was understandable. I, too, would have given my loyalty to a woman with the ability to control the weather and cause crops to die on the vine, rather than a barbarian whose war would long have been at an end without the inspiration provided by his wife.

The Old Gods had turned away from Tevinter, and in their wake, the people needed something else to believe in. But I was uncomfortable with the suggestion that I was connected with this Maker of theirs, a being about which I had no knowledge. Was it some ancient deity who had been worshipped in secret for centuries? Or a god newly forged by people who felt abandoned and needed something - anything - upon which to hope?

I suppose I can't blame them for reaching out, although the choice of this remote god who neither showed his face nor spoke with his voice, seemed utterly unsatisfying. Then again, who was I to judge? I still worshipped the Spirits of my youth, as well as an unknown goddess whose name I never have known. Either way, there was nothing I could do to stop what they were saying, and the thought I was somehow blessed in this manner made them happy. I supposed it would do no harm, even though I knew my success had nothing to do with this Maker, but that my powers came from the goddess whose statue I had discovered in the darkest depths of the Deep Roads.

At any rate, I kept quiet about these concerns, and northward we went. Always winning, always dealing a fatal blow to those who opposed us. If our forces were spread thin in our wake, it hardly seemed to matter. Was I inspired by something divine? To be honest, it mattered not to me. I believed I was unstoppable, and for a while, it was the truth.

I called it my Exalted March, which was incredibly arrogant of me. There was nothing exalted about it, other than that I wished it to be thought of so. It is true that my intentions were good, and what came of the war I waged did accomplish something good. I refuse to believe otherwise. The elves were freed, and able to live lives of peace. And Tevinter was driven from the south. Maferath, Shartan and I, for at least one moment in time, believed we could do anything. The Magisters bowed before us, armies fled in our path.

But then they regrouped, as of course they would. A Magister is not a person who admits defeat. It is not possible to become a Magister without believing in your heart no one will ever best you. So, of course, they regrouped. With a new strategy to replace the one that had failed.

Even so, I doubt they would have succeeded had not something else happened, something I could never have expected. Something I ought to regret, but know in my heart that I never will.

 

•o•


	5. Earth

 

•o•

  
_Spirit of the earth, I give my body to thee._  
 _Oh, let my ashes sacred be.  
_ _Then let the Chant of Light grow, if it please thee for to end our fear and our suffering._

•o•

Earth has always been the most tangible, the most real of all the Spirits for me. The one that can be touched, that can be held in one's hand without worrying it will slip away. She was always the one that brought the most comfort: my bare feet on earth warmed by the sun, the softness of her dewy grass, the stalwart presence of her trees in the forest. My body came from the earth, and to the earth it will return. In the end, some will say that it was my earthly desires that led to my downfall, but that was not really the truth.

In the end I was condemned for the one thing I did not do.

Havard was the childhood friend of my husband. Maferath's oldest, best friend, although it had been many years since the two men had met face to face. Havard had left the Ferelden Valley during the Blight, crossing the Waking Sea in his desire to fight the darkspawn. In Nevarra, he joined the newly-formed order whose sole purpose was to fight back the darkspawn. Mostly Tevinters and Anders, they called themselves Grey Wardens.

Havard had been at the Battle of Silent Plains, the battle that ended the Blight, and had seen the great dragon, Dumat, with his own eyes. When he joined us after the Battle of Ghislain, even without knowing him as my husband knew him, having never known him before, I could tell he had been changed by the experience. There was something inside of him, something dark and seductive in his very blood, something that spoke of secrets and darkness and lyrium and corruption, and I knew he was unlike anyone I'd ever known before and that thrilled me and terrified me, in equal measure.

I tried not to look at him, I tried not to catch him staring at me, but it was something neither of us could deny. Like an invisible cord tying us together, pulling at us, its constant pressure there, no matter how hard we tried to resist. Although I have never spoken the words aloud, never could and never will, I will allow myself to think them now. I love him. Almost from the first moment we met, I loved him, and I can't imagine I will ever stop. I didn't mean to love him, I swear it. Nor did he intend to love me. But his eyes held secrets I yearned to know, and in his breath dwelt the spirit of all I loved dear, and in his voice I found the salvation I sought, the salvation I didn't know I needed. And when my body dies on the pyre the Magisters are building for me, my love will be released to fly free. That is what I believe, anyway; it is the only thing I am capable of believing.

Even so, I never betrayed my husband. Not in the way he thought. Havard and I were intimate, yes. I shared more intimacy with him than I had ever shared with another person. But we never touched. Not even once. All we ever did was talk. We walked together, and we talked, and he told me about things he had seen during the Blight, and I told him of the wonders I had seen in the Deep Roads. We talked endlessly, about important things and insignificant ones, about this war we were waging and about death and happiness and peace and hope. We speculated why the birds fly north when the weather turns cold, or how something as tiny as a seed could grow into a fully-formed plant. We spoke of tides and dragons and insects and how the winds from the north smelled of famine and death.

He spoke of his childhood, and I spoke of mine, and as we walked I pointed out flowers, telling him their names, which, strangely, he had never before learned. I thought everyone knew the names of flowers, but perhaps not. Perhaps that was something special my mother shared with me. So I shared it with him, teaching him the names of thistles and daffodils and rosemary, and especially the bleeding ladies my mother had loved so much, the flowers that had become my favorites, as well.

No matter what Maferath imagined we did together, I never betrayed my husband. Not with my body. Perhaps with my mind, but I can never regret the things I imagined, the soft words and caresses I would have given Havard had I been free to do so, or had I been a different sort of person, more susceptible to the desires of my flesh. It seems unfair I should be held accountable for mere thoughts, and yet, of all the things for which I could have been condemned, all the battles, the killing, the starvation and misery I left in my wake, it is those thoughts that have brought about the end.

Then again, perhaps Maferath's accusation wasn't unfair. Perhaps what I did was a betrayal. To know the mind of another person to such a degree is intimacy beyond any that can be had through mere physical contact. Perhaps Maferath did have good reason for his jealousy.

And once, on a night where the sky was crystal clear above us and icy cold because of it, a million stars twinkling overhead, Havard spoke to me of the Maker. How he believed that the Maker must have guided us this far, must have inspired my music and my magic.

I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now, although in truth, I'm not sure what I do believe instead. Well, I suppose I believe in the power of the Spirits; they have been at my side all along. And the goddess whose spirit inhabits the statue I found in the Deep Roads. But the Maker? People believing he chose me, somehow, for greatness? No. The Maker has never been any part of my life, at least not in my awareness. I'd never even heard his name whispered until long after the battle at Emerius. And to think he might be hovering around, unseen, in the darkness that awaits me after my death . . . While that thought may soothe others, I find nothing of comfort in it, and much that makes me afraid.

To be honest, I doubt the Maker even exists. I hope he does not exist. Because if he does, what sort of a miserable god is he, anyway? Remote and uncaring, abandoning his children. The thought of him out there somewhere, watching and waiting but doing nothing to help, chills me to the bones.

I didn't say this to Havard, though. Clearly, he had found comfort in his beliefs, and it was not my place to take it from him, so I listened quietly when he spoke of the Maker. And at the very end, when I realized the story had spread farther and faster than I could have imagined, when it spread like wildfire until it seemed most everyone who followed me believed it, I still kept quiet. It seemed harmless. Now, though, that seems like a mistake.

Maker, if you are out there, somewhere, watching, I spit on you and all that you are now or ever were.

In truth, though, I doubt the Maker ever existed, and is nothing more than a fantasy imagined by terrified, miserable people, unwilling to believe their terrifying, miserable lives had no meaning. So they created something to sustain them, a promise of something better after the horrors of this world. They created a god, and now it seems I am part of this legacy, whether I wanted it or not.

 

•o•

Another evening, another campfire, like so many before. I might never have noticed anything was different, except I turned my head and caught a glimpse of my husband staring at me from across the fire. Almost immediately, he smiled, but in the heartbeat before that happened, I saw it. I saw the betrayal in his face.

No, that is an exaggeration, overly dramatic and wrought of hindsight. I saw no such thing. Rather, what I saw wasn't the presence of anything unusual or suspicious, but rather an  _absence_. The absence of me. I was used to being studied by him. For the past few months, at least, it seemed his eyes were always upon me, searching, seeking the answer to some question he never asked me outright. But that night had been different. That night, Maferath looked at me as though I were only a memory, as though I were someone he had only just met, or perhaps had heard of but to whom he had never actually spoken. I was no longer in his heart, in his mind, in his life. As though I were already dead.

Perhaps I should have left then. Run. Fled whatever treachery he had in mind for me. But I didn't. I felt no fear, I trusted in the loyalty of those who followed me. I assumed I could weather whatever storm he decided to hurl at me. So I watched, and I waited.

As it so happened, I didn't have long to wait.

Soon after that evening, our armies faced the mightiest army the Tevinters had yet been able to muster, and it was, indeed, formidable. But when our forces met on the Valarian Fields, I knew before the first charge had ended that we would be victorious. We were slightly outnumbered, but only slightly, and the faces of my men shone with joy and fervor and righteousness, while the Tevinters stank of apathy and fear. They no longer believed in themselves, in their Imperium. We defeated them, in what was our greatest victory yet.

In the wake of this battle, my husband left our camp. He was gone only one night, saying he had walked up into the hills to pay homage to the Spirits who had brought us this far. At the time, I thought nothing of it. In truth, I was happy for his absence, for the relief I felt at being freed from his gaze, for even a short time.

Three days later, we entered a mountain pass. Our scouts had returned, assuring us there was no danger. I hardly noticed when Maferath urged me to walk faster, putting distance between us and the rest of the army. Between us and those who followed me, who would have done anything to protect me.

My enemies took us by "surprise," agents of Tevinter who had been waiting in the shadows. Weapons drawn, they quickly surrounded us, and when Maferath made no effort to defend himself, I knew what had happened. He had betrayed me, was handing me over to the Imperium in exchange for some concession. Only later did I learn that they'd "given" him the south, unchallenged.

Shartan was the first to die. He drew his sword, and prepared to defend me. The next instant, an arrow in his neck sent him sprawling to the ground without barely a sound. I wish I could believe they attacked him first because of his bravery, because he stood by me in spite of the danger. But I know they killed him first merely out of habit. The Tevinters view elves as expendable, so they hadn't bothered to even learn his name before killing him.

And then, Havard. Dear Havard, who was in the worst position of all: unable to give me up without a fight, but unwilling to betray the man who had been his best friend since childhood. So, instead of taking up arms against my husband, which might have succeeded, he used his body to shield me, an act that was, of course, futile. How could one man stand against the might of the Magisters who waited for us, arranged in advance by my treacherous, misguided, stupidly jealous husband?

At least that's what they thought. What they didn't know, what they could never know, as they sent spells at him that ravaged his body, that drew blood and brought him to his knees, is that Havard did stand against them. They may have cut him down, left him to bleed to death on the blackened earth of that accursed place. But what they can never know is that Havard was victorious that day, because his sacrifice gave me the will I needed to face what was to come. Gave me the will to remain whole when they wished to break me, to remain strong when they tried to rob from me my strength. No one has ever given me a greater gift than Havard gave me that day.

When I looked down at the pool of Shartan's blood inching slowly towards my feet, at the curve of Havard's shoulders as they shuddered with his last, gasping breath, I knew it was over. Oh, certainly I could have fought, and killed some of them. I could have delayed, distracted, charmed them for even a few minutes, and my own men, those loyal to me, would have thrown themselves eagerly at their deaths in order to defend me. But it was pointless. Pointless and grim and dull and disinteresting, and drenched in the blood of those who did not deserve to die. And there was no way Maferath and I could have recovered from his betrayal. No way to bridge that gap, and the thought of trying filled me with an exhaustion that was more profound than anything I had ever before experienced. For a brief moment, the sword in my hand began to vibrate, as though the goddess herself was urging me on, but then even that went silent.

And with that, I knew everything was at an end.

 

 

 

_Andraste and Havard, by Foxghost_

 

 

•o•

So, this was how it would end. Maferath had what he wanted: the South. It seemed such a meager prize, compared with what we could have had. But his dreams had always been meager and stunted. I was the one with the grandiose vision: freeing the slaves, removing for all time the threat caused by the Magisters. Maferath had never cared about these things. He wanted merely to be the warlord of as much land as he could comfortably hold. Perhaps he realized that trying to take all of Thedas would have extended himself too far, stretched his resources too thin. He risked losing all he had gained. And he thought I had been unfaithful. Which, perhaps in a way, I had been. And he had run out of time and love and patience, so, he made a bargain with Tevinter: the South, in exchange for me.

He should be ashamed. Not so much for betraying me, but for asking for so little in return. He already held the south, and together he and I were just a hair's breadth away from conquering the last vestiges of the Imperium. But his judgement had been clouded by his jealousy, and in his desperation to strike back at me for imagined wrongs, he threw away everything we had worked for, fought for, that our army had suffered and died for.

And that I can not find in my heart to forgive.

Surely, there is irony here. The first thing Lilura taught me, so many years ago, was to do whatever was necessary that I should never be slave to any man. And I think over the years, perhaps she would have been proud. Maferath held no power over me during the years of our marriage, our partnership was that of equals, until the moment he decided to end it. And the armies followed me. Never was I subservient to anyone, and certainly not to any man.

Not until I chose subservience, not to a man, but to love itself. Ultimately, it was love that enslaved me. Perhaps that was the evil Lilura should have warned me about.

They bound me, and gagged me to ensure I could use no magic. The gag was unnecessary; my powers were nothing now compared to what they had been before, as I no longer had my sword. Praying no one would pay attention, I had dropped the sword beside Havard's lifeless body, as though I believed that even in death he could continue to offer his protection. I trust no Magister put his filthy hands upon it, for I could hear its singing no longer. If they had brought it along, the statue would have called to me, I am certain of it. As long as it never falls into their hands, I am satisfied.

They forced me to walk all the way to Minrathous. The Magisters, of course, had mounts, and set a grueling pace. My feet were bloodied and bruised by the time we arrived, and I was not offered the relief of healing. Clearly, this was meant to be part of my punishment, so I didn't question it, or try and complain.

Immediately, I was taken to the Archon. To Hessarian.

My first impression was that I had never seen eyes quite like his before. Light brown, and piercing, taking in every detail of the room without ever leaving my face. He was like a hawk, and the thought gave me comfort. Birds of prey rarely played with their victims; they went straight for the kill. A snap of the neck, or a rip of the jugular, and death came quickly. A comforting thought, especially considering the tortures I had been promised by my captors on the journey to the city. And of course, I preferred my enemies to be competent, at the very least. Formidable at best. Had I been captured by someone less impressive, I would have been disappointed.

My second thought was less charitable. The Magisters called me a slave, but what was this man if not the same? The Mage-Ruler of Tevinter, but did he have any more choice than I did in what was to happen? As it turned out, no. He did not. Probably less choice than I had, if the truth be known. He was nothing more than a slave, to Tevinter, to his wife, to his own authority and power. That, perhaps, was the ugliest secret of the Imperium. That no one, not even those in power, were truly free.

In Minrathous, they did things to me. They wanted to break me, humiliate me. Teach me "my place." But none of their tortures held any horror for me. They did few things that hadn't been done to me before. Had they forgotten I had once been a slave in this very city? Of course they hadn't forgotten. It was the reason they pursued me, the reason they hated me. The reason they were so desperate to tame me. But while they remembered the fact of my slavery, clearly they had forgotten the reality of it.

Because nothing they could have done to me, no mortification of my flesh, no violation of my body, could have tortured me as much as the thoughts to which I am subjecting myself in my own mind. I am living in a world full of tortures of my own devising, regrets for the things I had done and the things I had failed to do, the things I had feared, and the things I had run toward, willingly. At the time, I believed what I was doing was just, and I continue to believe that even now. But there is no denying I was responsible for a great deal of death - people I killed personally, as well as those killed in my name. I pray that freedom will have proven to be worth the cost, and if some afterlife awaits me, I will not be judged unworthy.

But these thoughts serve no purpose, so I am trying to banish them from my mind. Instead, I think about my sons. This thought - I will be parted from them, from my beloved boys - causes sufficient pain that all other thoughts are driven away. But at the same time, the image in my mind of their faces brings genuine pleasure. So, I think about my sons.

They are not here, which is a blessing. Their father sent them away on some fabricated mission. I suspect he did it hoping to hide from them his complicity in my death, and I am grateful they will not be forced to witness what has been done to me. But sooner or later, they will hear of it. And even should no one speak the words to them, they will know the next time they look upon their father. It is impossible to believe they will not see the betrayal in his eyes. And I expect they will act. They love me, after all, in spite of my failings as a mother.

 

•o•

Sometimes I believe anger is the most powerful emotion of all. Love can inspire us, hatred and fear can compel us, but anger burns inside and begs us to act upon its desires, refusing to let go until its energy is spent. Anger drives us forward when nothing else has the strength. It was anger, my anger at the Magisters, that got me this far. But even anger can only be sustained for so long, and now, when perhaps I need it most, I am no longer be able to sustain it. Knowing that on the morrow I will be brought to the pyre, even my anger is gone, leaving nothing in its place.

My hair, too, was gone. It may come as a surprise to hear that this was the boon I requested of my captors: for my hair to be shorn. Even knowing all the things that were to happen, all the horrors I would face, the thing I feared most was the smell of my own hair burning. Perhaps because it was a small thing I was capable of fully imagining. Other things, the feel of the flames consuming my flesh, the certainty of my death and whatever punishments might wait for me beyond, were better put out of my head until the time I could no longer ignore them. But this one thing still frightened me, so I begged Hessarian to spare me just this one small indignity, and he agreed. I suspect he will pay a price for this mercy; mercy is not a trait the Tevinters hold in high esteem. So my hair is gone, and I feel naked without it, but also strangely liberated. Ready, perhaps, to face what will come.

Tomorrow, I will die. I will be tied to a stake and set ablaze in front of a crowd of people. I have no doubt the courtyard will be filled with spectators; the Tevinters will force everyone in the city to watch as they destroy me, as a warning to anyone who might have considered rising up in the future. But I don't know what the mood of these people will be. Will they laugh and jeer? Perhaps some of them will throw things at me. Such a story that would be to tell years from now: the day when grandfather threw a stone that made Andraste the Harlot cry out in pain. Or perhaps the crowd will be subdued, quiet. Perhaps some of the people will even pray for me. Silently, of course. No one would risk the wrath of the Tevinters, especially not on this, of all days.

I am fairly certain, however, regardless of the reaction of this crowd, the Imperium's murder of me will have the opposite of its intended effect. As the story spreads across Thedas, I will not be spoken of with contempt, but with awe and gratitude. Women - especially young women, or beautiful ones, women who are beloved by someone, women who once had waist length hair the color of unharvested wheat - make powerful martyrs. The deaths of men serve as an inspiration to no one, except perhaps other soldiers, who intended to die anyway. But the death of a beautiful woman? My death? Will put my name into the heart and on the tongue of every man and woman striving for freedom. To my people, to slaves and the oppressed anywhere and far into the future, my name will become a prayer. A battle cry. A curse and a blessing. A word lovers cry out at their climax. People will flock to worship me, regardless of whether I was ever worthy of their praise while I lived.

Will any of them will ever know the truth? That the power in my hands came not from this Maker, but from a different source? And even if they knew, would they care? Or would they carry on in spite of the truth, carry on believing I was on a holy crusade, that I was divinely chosen, somehow, to lead them? Perhaps they're not wrong. I suppose that just because the Maker never spoke to me doesn't mean he isn't there. That would be funny, almost, the irony of it.

They accused me of blasphemy, of turning my back on the Old Gods, of having an unholy relationship with some upstart god. But the gods I honored were ancient, far older than those of the Tevinters. And it was not some remote god from another world who was my love, but a mortal man. A man of flesh and blood.

Perhaps now, at the end, I do regret not telling them the truth. I regret not denouncing this god of theirs, not making certain they knew the true source of my strength. Because now, I do fear what may be done in my name. People are dangerous and cruel when they believe they are on a holy mission, whether or not those beliefs are based on fantasy and lies.

Of course, it is far too late to worry about any of these things now.

Tomorrow, the end will finally come. I am to die on a pyre of branches and sticks, lit, no doubt, by mage fire. Not at all unlike the fire which started me on this path so many years ago. There is nothing I can do to stop it, and in truth, I'm not sure I have the will continue, even were I able. And I can feel fear building inside of me, but that is not how I want to spend my last moments on this earth. My life was not built upon fear, but upon strength, and freedom. And I will not die afraid. I refuse to die afraid. I will not give the Imperium that satisfaction.

Instead, I will sing. They have not taken that from me, and perhaps the song in my heart can push back the fear. My own, and that of others, as well.

So I will sing, in the hope it will comfort those who can hear. And if it soothes the pain in my own heart, I will be grateful for that small mercy.

_Spirit of the water, soothe away my anger,_  
 _For I am soon to leave here, in great fear and pain.  
_ _Surround me with thy beauty, if it please thee that I might lose my fear of the flames._

_Spirit of the fire, hear me when I cry,_  
 _For I am soon to die, and leave my people to mourn.  
_ _Let me burn brightly, if it please thee that they might see my light and be warmed._

_Spirit of the air, lift my essence quietly,_  
 _So high above that gathering, and from this cold world be borne.  
_ _Your song will be my guide, if it please thee that I might spend eternity at your side._

_Spirit of the earth, I give my body to thee.  
_ _Oh let my ashes sacred be.  
_ _Let the Chant of Light grow, it it please thee to end our fear and our suffering._

 

•o•

 NOTE: An audio recording of "Spirits" can be heard [here](http://heretherebdragons.tumblr.com/post/33141724681/spirits-by-heretherebdragons-i-recorded-this). 


	6. Guardian

 

•o•

_She loved flowers._

_She spoke of them often, with a fondness in her voice in such sharp contrast to the woman everyone else saw. The warrior queen, fierce and hard. And she was those things, but she was so much more, as well. When she taught me the names of the flowers, I could see it, even if no one else could._

_Bleeding ladies were her favorite, their delicate petals stretching outward, white at the ends but turning blood red near the stem. I collected them, as many as I could find (which wasn't many; they were as rare as they were beautiful), and placed them at the site of the pyre. Three days after her death, a small crowd remained. People who had loved her, who mourned for her, prayed for her. They gathered here, gathered at what would surely be known as a holy site for the rest of eternity. Behind me, I heard someone mention Andraste's beauty, and her grace._

_I am the only one left who witnessed Maferath's betrayal. Me, and the Magisters of Tevinter who hungered for Andraste's blood. They yearned to destroy her not for the war she had waged, or the land she had won, or the slaves she had freed. They hungered for her because she made them feel afraid. Because they could not control her. And Maferath, too, felt afraid. I should have seen it, should have left long ago, out of respect for our friendship. But my love blinded me to the dangers._

_The Tevinters cut me down that day. If my will, my desire had been all that was needed, I would have stopped them from taking her. But will and desire are only fleeting things compared with the might of magic, of ice and fire and cruelty. So they cut me down, but I did not die. Assisted by some of her followers who had arrived too late to save her, I left that place, taking with me her sword. That, above all else, must not fall into the wrong hands._

_When I arrived here, at the place of her death, the place of her sacrifice, of her martyrdom, I found that her earthly remains had been left to the wind and the rain. I fell to my knees, unable to stop myself from running my fingers through the ashes, from bringing a pinch of them to my lips, needing to be close to her this one, final time._

_She came to me then, all gossamer and light, her beautiful hair flowing gently in a breeze that touched nothing in this mundane world. She knelt beside me, her smile more radiant than the light of a thousand suns._

_"The Maker shall never forget you so long as I remember," she whispered. I felt her breath against my ear, and the caress of her fingers on my face, in a way I had never known in life, but had yearned for so many times._

_And I knew they had not killed her. They could never kill her. She would live forever, at the side of Our Maker. And though I mourned her and grieved for her, yearned to hold her in my arms just once, I consoled myself with the knowledge that she was in a better place._

_When the vision of her faded away, my wounds were healed, and I had strength greater than ever before._

_The ashes, I gathered together into a pouch made of cloth, determined to find a resting place for them worthy of Andraste. The Maker's Bride. The Chosen One. The beloved of my own heart, although this paled in comparison to everything else she had been._

_This task, finding a worthy home for the ashes, proved more difficult than I could ever have imagined, but that hardly mattered. After all, if something is worth the effort, any amount of hardship can be suffered with a glad heart. So I carried Andraste's ashes out of Tevinter and into the mountains to the south and the east, seeking a place where she could gaze ever into Our Maker's sky._

_The place I chose was far to the south, in the lands of the Alamarri where Andraste herself had been born. High in the mountains whose ridges look like a dragon with snow-frosted spines on its back, I found a valley of unsurpassing beauty. The villagers who lived nearby were moved by the story I told them, of Andraste and the love she had for all people. With their help, I built a temple fit to honor her earthly remains. From the living rock I carved an urn to cradle forever what remained of the greatest being who would ever walk this red earth. And inside that altar, I placed her sword, with its idol who whispered to her and guided her - both to her victory, as well as to her death._

_But what of the future? What of those who wouldn't understand, or those who understand so clearly that they would seek to defile her? No. This, above all else, must never be allowed. There must be some way to protect her. Some_ one _to protect her._

_A guardian. One to judge those who attempt to enter her tomb, to judge their worthiness. To look into their very souls. It was the only way to ensure none would enter who might have their hearts bent on destruction. And I knew who it must be. No one still alive knew her as I did. No one alive or dead had loved her as I had loved her. So, I, Havard, would stay, guarding the entrance to her temple. For all eternity, if necessary._

_To defend my Lady._

•o•

 

**Author's Note:**

> The song featured in this story is based on a song by the Reclaiming Collective, "Spirits," composed by Jimmy Guiffre and Susan Fakenrath Wolf. The original is written from the point of view of a woman being put to death for "witchcraft" during the Burning Times in medieval Europe. With some reworking of the lyrics, I thought it was a perfect song to describe Andraste's feelings before her martyrdom. At the end of the story, there is a link to an audio recording of Andraste (aka me) singing this song.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Handmaiden's Canticle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/602791) by [owlmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose)




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